castra Agricolae
by 0101001
Summary: This is basically a ridiculous crack!fic of the Cambridge Latin Course Book 3. If you don't do the course, you probably won't understand any of this. But basically, it's QuintusDumnorix, QuintusAgricola slash. Salvius also makes a brief appearance.


Reviews welcomed.

Disclaimer I realise that Agricola was actually a real person, however; I am basing this on the stories in Cambridge Latin Course book 3, not the historical figure. Ok? Now read on...

* * *

Night was falling on the windswept moor. Quintus and Dumnorix, exhausted from the day's excursions, were setting up camp. 

"Di immortales! Quinty baby, you were just fantastic," said Dumnorix lighting an unusually large fire. "I've never seen someone ride so hard and fast. And your technique was just amazing darling!"

"You were great too." said Quintus, blushing slightly as he unrolled the tent cloth. "It's so hard keeping erect with all the movement under me. I'm still a bit sore…"

They had been on horseback all day. Obviously. What else could they have been talking about? They were just another few miles from Agricola's camp. With the fire roaring away, Dumnorix prepared dinner, whilst Quintus unsaddled the horses. Having enjoyed their sausages very much, they were about to turn in for the night, when suddenly Quintus, rummaging in the tent, cried,

"Heracles! I've lost my sleeping bag!"

"Eheu!" replied Dumnorix sympathetically, shifting slightly to hide the still recognisable remainders of the fire. "It sure is cold tonight though…" On cue, a gale blasted across the exposed spot, chilling the pair to the bone. "We're going to have to keep warm somehow".

They bedded down. Luckily, Dumnorix's sleeping bag was extra large, and lined with satin. Dumnorix reassured Quintus that the best way to keep warm was to take off his cold tunic and add instead an insulating layer of sticky, runny honey.

"Good thing you Regnenses are experts at survival skills."

"Oh yes, I'm very experienced" replied Dumnorix, who of course was also covered in honey. "But if you want to stay _really _warm…"

Quintus rose early from what had definitely been one of the hottest nights of his life. After a light breakfast, they were about to set off when suddenly Quintus, going to saddle the horses, cried in despair,

"Oh goodness! One of the horses is gone! What are we going to do now?"

"That's bad luck indeed." Dumnorix said sombrely, quickly shoving the slashed rope behind a bush with his foot. "There's only one thing for it. We'll-"

"I'll have to go it alone." Quintus interrupted, vaulting onto the horse. "Thanks for everything, Rixy, but this is my battle. I can't drag you into it. Don't want to put you to any trouble, sharing a horse. Cheerio!"

"Right. I'll just wait here then." Dumnorix called as Quintus turned galloped off into the distance.

A few moments later, Juno's garden party, which was just getting into full swing at that point, was interrupted by several loud expletives, which made even Venus blush.

Meanwhile, at the heavily fortified camp, Agricola was in a foul mood.

"You say they've been doing WHAT in the granary? THAT? Are you sure? And what on earth was the courgette for? Yes, I suppose it is a bit cold for cucumbers up here. But never mind that, WHY DIDN'T THEY INVITE ME?" he screamed at the unfortunate centurion.

"I'm sorry sir I-"

"NEVERMIND. Just get them in here. And fetch the whip. Methinks some severe punishment is in order." He said, sighing and leaning back in his chair.

Agricola missed his farm. He had only wanted a short stint in the military and now here he was, commanding the whole miserable province. It was far too cold for his liking, and the men were without a doubt the dregs scraped off from other legions and posted across the sea. He longed for the warm Tuscan sun and the smell of cows; the smooth shiny pelt of a pure-bred horse; the lithe, energetic stable boys with their soft, deft fingers, who had…

"Sir?"

"What?" he snapped, shaking himself out of his day dream.

"Well, sir," the centurion continued nervously "there's a man outside for you, sir, says it's urgent, and GAH!" he cried, as a panting Quintus burst through the doors. He ran headlong across the room and, to Agricola's surprise and secret delight, threw his arms around the commander's knees. After a few moments he began to rise, but Agricola quickly stopped him, motioning at the centurion to leave.

"I see you are attempting to beg my forgiveness in your Southern fashion," he said, his mind whirring gleefully away with fantastic designs "but up here, don't get off that easily. Oh no. You must, er, erm…" An imaginary light bulb pinged on above his head. "You must be punished." Walking over to the cupboard against the wall, he began to rummage inside, producing various items. "You must be smothered in the, er, Chocolate Sauce of Remorse! Yes! Then…then lashed with the Feather Boa of a Thousand Apologies. And finally," he said, turning back to Quintus "you shall feel the touch of the Carrot of Forgiveness! Now, first and foremost," he said with a leer "get that filthy tunic off and don the Leather Garment of Being Sorry…ness".

Several hours of begging for forgiveness later, Quintus emerged from the headquarters in a clean tunic, still smelling faintly of the Chocolate Sauce of Remorse. Agricola, despite his stern appearance, had been most merciful. Quintus had quite enjoyed the Feather Boa of a Thousand Apologies. And as for the Carrot of Forgiveness…

"I'll certainly have a few things to show Barby when I get home" thought Quintus happily, as he prepared to ride back. Agricola had gladly written and signed a full pardon for Coggy, before being called to an urgent granary inspection.

"I suppose they need to keep an eye on their grain around here," thought Quintus, trotting past the wooden granary. "Those noises sound like a rather large rats".

Just after the last traces of dust from the horse's hooves had blown away, a furious Salvius burst into the headquarters.

"Do you know who that boy was?" he demanded of Agricola, who was busy repairing the Leather Garment of Being Sorryness, which was rather worse for wear after the afternoon's activities.

"No, but I do know _you're _late, Sally. And you know what that means. Go and get dear Belly, I'm in a very…forgiving mood."


End file.
